Friday, July 26, 2013

Spuds and I will board a plane to New
York during the first week of August. I will drop him in Annandale,
spend a few days in Manhattan followed by a week in London with a
girlfriend. The trip is booked way back before real estate
negotiations go south and I am sure that everything will be
completely sewn up before my departure. I am sheepish about going to
London while in the middle of the great building farrago but everyone
says I deserve to go and Verizon only wants $30 for a global data
plan. I'm starting to buy in. Joe College asks what “ascetic”
means and I want to blurt out “Dad, and after twenty-five years
it's rubbed off on me.” I certainly am less profligate due to the
influence of Himself's monastic inclinations but I do have a dozen
pair of shoes, that my closet can't accommodate, annexed under the
bed.

The day after I return to L.A., Joe
College will pack up and take off for his junior year. We have his
friend from school, a fabulous kid, staying with us for the summer.
We all love him but observing him at the table it occurs to me that
all he really likes to eat is meat and that he really hates fish. My
kids aren't crazy about fish either but Himself doesn't eat any meat
at all and Spuds won't eat beef. Often I end up making three
separate entrees, and no matter what, there always seems to be
something that someone doesn't like. My children are fussy. You reap
what you sow.

I do enjoy the conviviality of the
table and with our summer guest, we are all on particularly good
behavior. Himself has the table set when I return from work which
means that if I suggest we go out he can say, “but the table is
already set.” I love to cook but sometimes the effort and the
attempt to satisfy so many disparate palates is tiring. One night
this week with the kids gone, I throw some leftovers together for
Himself and eat a bowl of popcorn myself, sitting on the couch
watching Colbert. The shape of things to come.

Towards transitioning less pathetically
to the soon to be empty nest, I socialize a bit. When I go out for
the second night in a row this week Spuds asks why I suddenly have a
life. Nancy, my friend the flutist, and I head up to the Hollywood
Bowl to hear what one of our fellow passengers on the Park 'n Ride
bus refers to as “The Rites of Spring.” Nancy arrives to pick me
up with a bag of stuff from Trader Joe's, including a salad for
herself. She asks if she needs to grab a fork and Joe College is
certain that TJ's salads come with forks. She is ravenous by the
time we get to our seats. The salad has no fork. Fresh and Easy
salads come with forks. NOT Trader Joe's. We are in the nosebleed
area and the only open food purveyor is down at the bottom of the
hill. The concert is about to begin. I would suggest that she eat
the salad with her fingers but it is beets. Some Israelis are eating
enthusiastically and yacking it up in the seats behind us. I ask if
they have an extra fork and they present one from their overflowing
picnic hamper.

After having eschewed the escalators to
arrive at our high altitude seats, we resent having to stand for the
National Anthem. You don't have to stand when there's a rock concert
at the Bowl. You don't have to stand when the Philharmonic plays at
Disney Hall. I'll probably get on some sort of government list but I
hate the Star Spangled Banner. No one remembers the words which are
stupid anyway and the melody isn't exactly a toe tapper. When the
program starts the fork donating Israelis continue to chat and seem
to crumple an interminable number of paper bags and seemingly Costco
size rolls of aluminum foil. I blame Joe College for the incorrect
lowdown with regard to the Trader Joe's fork because now that we've
partaken of their largesse we can't tell them to shut the fuck up.

Unfortunately, there are other
distractions this evening. Why would someone bring a newly
ambulatory baby to an evening classical performance? The tike
toddles up and down the dark steps and Mommy and Daddy takes turns
calling her back and trying to chase her down. I feel guilty and
politically incorrect with regard to my final complaint. A Tourette
sufferer, whose vocal tics are mostly profanities, is seated several
rows behind us. I mostly go to rock 'n roll concerts where this
wouldn't be an issue and given the Israelis, struggling to converse
with each other over the music, and the wayward baby, poor Tourette
is actually the least annoying of annoyances.

My piece of several weeks ago mentions
those phone calls in the middle of the night that start out with a
wobbly “Mom...” and can throw even the most mellow and
enlightened of us into apoplexy. Did my mere mention of this make
it come to pass? This time, the shaky “Mom” is followed by, “I'm
ok but I've been in a bad accident. My car is totaled.” I scream
for Spuds to come with me to fetch brother but when Joe College pops
out of the basement, I realize that it is not Joe College but Spuds
stuck at one a.m. on the 101. I can't distinguish their voices from
their father's either but Himself was sleeping in bed next to me so
it was only a 50/50 guess. Joe College forcefully tells me to stay
home and that he's better off handling it without me. I text Spuds
frantically and then realize his phone seems to have died. Joe
College calls, lost on the wrong freeway and then again to tell me
that every freeway is closed. I find myself standing in front of the
open refrigerator door, my historic source of comfort but I slam it
shut. I pace. I text Joe College with instructions until he texts
back “STOP!” Two hours later they return.

The next morning Spuds, who often
watches Judge Judy with me, e-mails me the pictures he took at the
accident scene to send to the insurance adjuster. There are a couple
of things in my life that I wish I hadn't seen and these pictures are
high on the list. I notice a huge bruise on Spud's knee and whisk him
off to Urgent Care. The diagnosis is a torn meniscus and the
prognosis is that given his youth it will likely heal without
surgery. The doctor looks at the pictures from the accident and
tells us that we are incredibly lucky. As I write this Spuds
indicates the pain is gone. He is breaking down shelves and heaving
films to the new office. There is only liability coverage so his
beloved Volvo is a goner. We are waiting for the police report but
based on the fact that the 58 year old woman who rear-ended him with
a Corvette too new to be classic but not new enough not to be crummy,
didn't have a credit card to pay the tow driver, we're guessing, no
insurance.

I decide to post one photo on Facebook
of the Corvette smashed underneath Spud's behemoth Volvo to encourage
people to buy heavy tank-like cars for new drivers and to warn their
kids against driving with a battery depleted cellphone. Seeing the
photo there on my Facebook page reminds me about all the parents who
get calls with much more terrible news. A childless friend writes
that our experience is unimaginable. He adds that he freaks out if
one of his dogs falls off the couch.

For the first time in twenty one years
there won't be a kid in the house. I did have fun before I had 'em.
I'm trying to relearn that. But despite the empty nest, there is no
going back since the breeding that commenced back in 1992. I had no
idea what I was in for. The love I have for the kids sometimes feels
commensurate to the horror I experience as they navigate the world.
I don't worry about myself much at all. Having kids though makes
fatalism utterly untenable. I truly am seeing the up side of the
empty nest but I never imagined 22 years I ago how inextricably and
how permanently I will be on the hook regardless of the nest's physical
population.

Friday, July 19, 2013

Perhaps it's a psychological smoke and
mirrors trick to pay attention to real suffering and injustice in the
world and make my own woes seem trivial. We are back in “all real
estate, all the time” mode as the sale of our office building has
gone all Chinese puzzle again. I was hoping the deal would be done
before I leave in early August to take Spuds to school but it appears
the negotiations will be protracted and my trip won't be distraction
free. I prepare dinner with my shoulder hunched to hold the phone in
place. The realtor and I go back and forth. I convey my frustration
and he volunteers a story about another transaction that has dragged
on for over nine months. I hang up. I call a friend who it turns out
is apparently bored by my whining. He changes the subject. “How is
Rover?” “OK,” I respond. The ancient dog's decrepitude has
plateaued. He still eats and can manage to get into the car. My
friend goes on, “Well, I hope he just goes in his sleep, rather
than, you know...” I hang up and take a sleeping pill.

A week long binge on the Netflix series
Orange is the New Black is a good distraction. Set in a Federal
Women's Prison, the show is riddled with inaccuracies, the most
egregious is that many of the crimes that inmates are purportedly
sentenced for would have landed them in state, not federal, prison.
The show is based on the story of Piper Kerman, a former debutante
and Smith College grad who spent a year in a Federal Prison for
smuggling drugs at the behest of her girlfriend. It is not a perfect
show. Friends and family outside of the prison are portrayed as
callow to the point of stereotype. Most of the inmates are victims of
circumstance but the flashbacks to their crimes are, if implausible,
incredibly satisfying. The showrunner is Jenji Kohan, whose Weeds
jumped the shark about four seasons ago. Orange is the New Black,
like Weeds, however is impeccably cast. I've never watched a film or
series that's motivated me to check out each and every performer on
IMDB.

We pay a visit to a real prison. There
is a hunger strike in progress throughout the state. Governor Brown
has requested a Supreme Court stay of the Federal Court order to
reduce the prison population by 10%. Funny how Governor Moonbeam
becomes Governor Law and Order when he is facing a reelection
campaign, that will require heavy duty largesse from law enforcement
unions. We have visited the men's prison in Tehachapi at least a twenty times. It is always a strange and unsettling experience to
enter a situation where it is presumed that you have bad motives. We
have made a couple stupid dresscode screw ups and have had to borrow
appropriate clothing from the charitable “Friends Outside” which
keeps a trailer near the visiting center. Typically from the time we
arrive at the visitors center it takes about an hour and a half to
reach the actual visiting room where we meet our friend Alan. The
wait this time is much longer. Witnessing the release of three
inmates is the silver lining. Two are in prison sweats and one wears
dress-outs (clothing sent from home.) I wonder how many years of
their lives the crumpled little trash bags they carry with them represent.
They are greeted by family. The odds are very much against them but
the real life emotion of this moment is more potent than any TV
drama.

The climate is palpably different this
visit. I attribute it to the hunger strike and perhaps the job loss
that will result as mandatory census reduction is closer to becoming
a reality. It seems a combination of ultra-heightened security and
retaliation. I am turned away when the muslin blouse I'm wearing is
deemed too sheer. The guard says, “You can see your
undergarments.” I know better than to ask if he's wearing x-ray
specs. I change into a black t-shirt.. Many more visitors are turned
away than usual. I am permitted to keep a single car key but others
are forced to surrender theirs. Attire that is typical of the
waiting room is suddenly too tight or too short. Almost everyone,
including the elderly, is patted down after passing through the metal
detector. A mother is carrying five bottles of baby formula. She is
only permitted to enter with four. She has to return to her car with
the fifth. Visitors are allowed to carry $40 in either quarters or
dollar bills for the vending machines. Ordinarily the officers flip
through the singles quickly. Today each bill is carefully examined.

We finally arrive at the visiting room.
Alan is surprised that the kids are with us. He hasn't seen either
for several years and he is blown away that both are tall young men.
We first visited about five years ago. Alan's scheduled release will
coincide with Spud's graduation from college. Now, the release is
four years away and after having served nearly twenty years, to Alan
it doesn't seem that long. He has completed an A.A. Degree in
business and also holds certificates in heating and air conditioning
as well as welding. He is an assistant teacher for a welding class
and plans to parole to Las Vegas where his finance lives and his
skills will be in demand. Like the women in Orange is the New Black,
Alan's sentence is due to an extraordinary stupid choice, but there
were indeed extenuating circumstances. The Three Strikes law
mandates a 23 year sentence. In states with no three strikes law the
same charge would likely result in an absolute maximum sentence of
five years. In California, prisoners sentenced under the Three
Strikes Law are only eligible for a 20% sentence reduction for good
time and educational accomplishments. Those not sentenced under
Three Strikes are eligible for 50 to 66% good time reduction..

If Justice Kennedy doesn't grant Jerry
Brown's request for a stay, the state will have to release 10,000
inmates. Actually, in order to keep pace with newly sentenced
prisoners and relieve the current overcrowding in the county jails,
the number will probably be closer to 20,000. If Kennedy upholds the
court decision, there is an excellent chance Alan will be released.
His mother is in Oregon and his fiance in Nevada. I promise I'll make
a beeline to Tehachapi if he has the good fortune to be freed early.

Visiting ends at 2:45. At about 1:15 a
guard announces that all of the inmates must leave for an emergency
count and that visitors have to remain seated. Alan wolfs down a
yogurt, his favorite treat from the vending machine and tells us that
he probably won't return. The prisoners file out and it is announced
they will be strip searched. The guards assure us that the inmates
will indeed come back and tell us again to stay put. Spuds, unused
to rising at 5 a.m. has chugged a couple of Red Bulls. Because he is
a minor I must be at his side at all times. I go to ask the guard if
we can be released from the visiting room for him to use the
bathroom. Request denied. We are told to return to our seats. It
approaches 2 p.m. It is clear that the inmates will not return.
Spuds is squirming and miserably uncomfortable. I approach the exit
door again and ask quite adamantly. Spuds is accompanied to the
bathroom by an officer who watches him pee. After another half an
hour we are permitted to leave and board the bus back to the visitor
center.

Alan writes this week about the pending
verdict and goes on, “I do stay focused on what I'm doing here. If
it happens, great but I'm not going to be disappointed. I only have
four years left to go regardless of all else. Sure, I hope for the
best and yes, it's a total dream to think I could go home this year
or next. It's like dreaming about hitting the lottery. It would be
cool, but the odds are 7 billion to one...”

I feel guilty, given the bigger
picture, fretting about money or office space or an old rescue dog
who's had a wonderful life. After over twenty years in prison, to
Alan, four doesn't seem like that long. I'm not saying I'm never
going to stress again because I have a friend who is sanguine about
the prospect of four additional years (he doesn't deserve) in a place
that is difficult for me to spend even a few hours in. Alan is happy
to have to serve ONLY four more years. There is a good chance that
Justice Kennedy will uphold the court's decision regarding prison
population but Alan tries not to think about it. Myself, I fantasize
about meeting him at the gate and welcoming him to the new
millennium.

I am emotionally exhausted and wish my
brain had an “off” switch. Alan's serenity about facing four more
years of time if Justice Kennedy sides with Governor Brown does
remind me that what plagues me in recent weeks will inevitably come
to an end. It won't take four years and through it all I get to go
home each night to a bowl of popcorn, infinite TV channels, Ambien,
and I guess, smoke and mirrors.

Friday, July 12, 2013

I attend a panel, sponsored by the
Pasadena branch of the ACLU, on the subject of California Prison
Realignment. The speakers are the ACLU Representative who serves
L.A. County Jail, the leader of the faith-based Justice Not Jails
group and a woman who, motivated by her own brother's brutal attack
by guards at the County Jail, has formed a coalition to institute
citizen oversight at the facility.

I am more familiar with the state
prison system than the county jail although both systems in common
fall far short in providing any sort of true rehabilitative program
and both are plagued by cadres of indifferent, and sometimes
ruthless, guards. I have long been aware that novice sheriffs are
first assigned to work at the jail. Up until there was a big stink
about a year ago, the least experienced deputies were put in charge
of the most volatile inmates. One of the speakers notes that Los
Angeles County is unique in California, and indeed most of the U.S.,
in training sheriffs via jail duty. He points out that this sort of
introduction to law enforcement work seems very “Southern.”
There are scads of reports about abusive jail personnel but the
victims lack credibility so much of the abuse goes unchecked. The
ACLU jail representative on the panel recounts witnessing guards
viciously kicking an unconscious inmate. She adds that there is
other testimony, based on witnessing similar violence inflicted on
inmates by jail staff, provided by a jail chaplain and also by a
tutor.

It is interesting that much of the
uproar about the abysmal conditions at the L.A. County Jail is fueled
by the fact that most of the inmates are being held because they're
awaiting trial and can't afford to make bail. Many of the ACLU
members are particularly outraged that so many of the prisoners
suffering in the county jail are innocent. Does this imply that it's
OK for the guilty to be subjected to barbaric conditions?

As I write this we are in the third day
of a hunger strike by some 13,000 state prison inmates whose major
issue is the imposition of indefinite periods of solitary
confinement. Prisoners who do not renounce gang affiliation are
often subjected to years of solitary. For many inmates, “dropping
the flag” potentially puts loved ones on the outside at risk. Many
inmates languish in solitary confinement for decades in order to
protect wives, mothers and children. The spokeswoman for California
Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation is quoted saying that
strikers will be dealt with harshly. Visiting and phone privileges
will be revoked and commissary items (purchased with the inmate's own
money) will be confiscated. The Corrections Department declines to
name the locations of the prisons where inmates are striking.
Strikers face other punitive sanctions including lengthened
sentences. Forced feeding will be instituted if the strike
continues. One of this weeks viral videos is of the courageous
rapper/actor Mos Def volunteering to undergo forced feeding to give
the public an idea of what our government is perpetrating at
Guantanamo and soon likely, California. I know better than to watch
such a video but I understand that the procedure was so excruciating
that Def asked that it be discontinued.

The news from Texas is that there's a
good chance a bill that highly restricts the availability of
abortions, despite Wendy Davis's epic filibuster, is destined to
pass. Ironically, the purportedly “pro-life” state recently
celebrated its 500th execution since capital punishment
was reinstated in 1976.

A newsletter I subscribe to chronicles
executions and death penalty issues around the world. Often there are
photographs and biographies of death row inmates. The preponderance
are black, born of teen moms and often in the third or fourth
generation to struggle with drug addiction and chalk up many more
years incarcerated than on the street. I am saddened but each mugshot
is just further evidence of the tragic and seemingly ceaseless cycle.

Some letters written by a prisoner on
death row to his sister are beautifully written and moving. The
writer, William Van Poyck is white and educated and was executed in
Florida on June 12. His sister keeps a blog
http://deathrowdiary.blogspot.com/
with his letters which provide an illuminating and harrowing
description of his final days, which he endured with miraculous
equanimity. William Van Poyck is more like me than most of the other
1329 inmates who have been executed since the death penalty was
reinstated in the U.S. His articulate voice gives me a better
understanding of what it is like to be on death row.

It is easier to punish those who are
least like us. The earnest ACLU members are outraged that the
innocent suffer in the hell that is County Jail. But what of the
guilty? What about a gang member who spends decades in solitary
confinement in order to protect his family? What about the man with
a 76 IQ struggling to understand the process that will ultimately end
his life? I think that people do have good inclinations. Good work
is done on behalf of children and animals. But we slam on the brakes
at the sign of any moral ambiguity. I would not want to be part of a
community that did not strive to project innocent kids and puppies.
I long though for a society with the courage and compassion to
protect the guilty.

Friday, July 5, 2013

God,
in the idiosyncratic way I define God, is not hovering over me making
sure the karma's balanced. Sometimes it just feels that way. After
two months of complicated real estate deals blown to smithereens and
research about underground storage tanks and soil contamination, a
geophysical survey crew arrives at the office. Estimates for the
removal of an abandoned storage tank range from $30,000 to $100,000
and this is just to remove the tank. Costs can radically escalate if
there is any evidence of contamination. There are city, state and
federal programs to help with these expenses but eligibility is not
guaranteed and the process is complicated and likely to drag on for
years. A device like a miniature steam roller is pushed over the lot
and in about a half an hour I am informed that there is no evidence
of a buried tank. Seldom have I waited for a result in such a state
of agitated anticipation. The sale is still not a done deal. The
perspective buyer can still pull out if he can't get financing or in
the unlikely event that further environmental tests reveal traces of
contamination from the gas station that occupied the site nearly 100
years ago. Nevertheless, there are a couple back up buyers in the
wings. Things have looked very promising a couple of times before but
seem perhaps but a bit more promising now. I am more sanguine than
sanguinary.

When
another deal seems like a sure thing we actually look at mountain
cabins and I start research on cars. My Volvo has nearly 200,000
miles and even my mechanic says not to put another dime into it.
When the deal falls through, despite the lip service I give to
rationality, part of me suspects I've jinxed it by counting unhatched
chickens. Even though there are good signs now I am superstitious
and do my best to keep to an austerity budget and not daydream about
cars or cabins.

We
have moved thousands of films to a climate controlled storage space
and now have to sort through what we need to take to our new smaller
office and what we need to get rid of. There are huge binders filled
with my dad's typed, and then later when he lacked the dexterity,
handwritten notes. We have transcribed some and hope to have all of
these notes in a database shortly. Dad also made photocopies of all
his work, just in case. I clean out a file cabinet filled with his
painstaking shot-by-shot descriptions of thousands of films. I fill
ten shopping bags for recyling with his notes. I give myself credit
for re-purposing the old film library as a stock footage archive.
I've built a lot of good professional relationships and have managed
to get our license agreement vetted by all of the studios and
networks. I'm a good negotiator and have good radar for customers who
will likely waste my time. I fill up bags of Dad's notes and despite
all I have made of the business, I am struck that I have never worked
as hard as he did.

I
am so beaten down by months of all real estate all the time that
while the results confirming the absence of a tank is a relief, it
doesn't provide the rush of euphoria that I'd anticipated. Business
is summer slow. We are paying rent on our new space and salaries for
kids hired to assist with the move. A good customer requests a
substantial refund on some materials that are cut from a project.
Another client is slow to pay on a large invoice. There is a
government warrant that's lost in the mail and will take a couple of
months to replace. I've been juggling money for as long as I can
remember. Probably, financial stress has been the most significant
detriment to the quality of my life. When colleagues and competitors
ask how we're doing I always say, "The lights are still on,"
but the confluence of this week's circumstances creates a potential
calamity that keeps me up all night. I wander downstairs at 3 a.m.
and the kids are watching a documentary about homeless Romanian kids
huffing paint. This puts my own circumstances in perspective but
nevertheless, I am uncertain how I will cover payroll and a number of
overdue bills, including ironically the DWP which could actually
result in the lights being turned off. I feel a physical shakiness
and find myself babbling to no one. After my employees toil in a
heatwave loading and unloading thousands of films the thought of not
covering payroll is unbearable.

I
can see no alternative but to borrow from a relative in order to stay
afloat until the overdue checks arrive. The reception to the
humiliating beseeching is easy, compassionate and affirmative. I'll
be able to issue paychecks but the discomfiture of having to ask for
a loan doesn't let me feel pure relief at being able to cover payroll
and other critical expenses. I do not foresee my current emergency
as having any repercussions regarding the relationship. Even though
the deficit is due to circumstances beyond my control I feel low and
failed. The boxes of my father's notes and hard work torment me. I
haven't worked hard enough. I've slipped up on my resolution not to
make any financial plans until after the real estate sale is a done
deal by poking around on the net looking at cars. Albeit, used
hybrids, but maybe my sophisticated perception of God is completely
off. Perhaps there is a punishing God who knows that I've never
worked as hard as my old man or that I'm researching cars before the
money's even in the bank.

I
take the kids to see the Bling Ring. They report that it as accurate
a portrayal of teen vapidness as they've ever seen. It's also a
pretty scathing indictment of parenting of the hands off variety. I
think of how hard my dad worked but also remember that I my childhood
contact with him was limited to spending Saturday morning with him at
the office, eating lunch and then engaging in a recreational activity
of three hours or fewer. I might not have worked as hard as my old
man did at the office but I've been present for the kids. Both of
them are people I would genuinely like if they weren't mine. I know,
nature vs. nurture, but I like to think that there's some nurture in
the mix there. I have people who love and trust me enough to
transfer money into my bank account in the blink of an eye. And,
there is no friggin' gas tank. My sense of my own fortune, good and
bad, really is all about the spin I put on it. I know that there
isn't a white bearded deity looking down on me from heaven. Still, I
promise not to look at cars again until the building is sold and
every debt is paid. Just in case.